


Hunter

by Eliza7006



Category: Not actually part of one, sorry guys - Fandom
Genre: Anyway if anybody finds this, Everything is an OC, It's not that graphic but if anybody gets triggered let me know and I'll change the rating, Somebody gets shot in the leg, This is not the website for that but oh well, This might become part of a full story if I ever stop procrastinating, Which will probably be never, enjoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:37:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza7006/pseuds/Eliza7006
Summary: Just a small flash fiction I wrote for my creative writing class. It got third place so I decided to post it.Basicall my character is a rookie police officer who accidentally stumbles upon an undercover drug operation in New York City (don't tell me they don't exist, I know they do) and gets into a bit of trouble. Also, Ledger is a mafia boss that Hunter met at some point, I dunno. If people like this, maybe I'll give it a background. It wasn't meant to have a plot, so don't yell at me about that.  However, I am always open to suggestions and constructive criticism, so don't be shy. Anyways, enjoy! Update: This work won a gold key for a Scholastics competition, so I'm pretty freaking proud of that





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yaaaaay first thing I've ever posted on this website! I can't tag, I can't do summaries and I clearly can't do notes, but hopefully I can write!

I'm dead. I'm so,  _ so _ dead. I'm a dead man running, weaving my way down unfamiliar avenue after unfamiliar avenue. The sound of heavy footsteps and the excited, animalistic shouts of my pursuers close behind me,  _ too close, _ is a decent motivator, even though my legs are burning and my lungs ache. As an officer, I’m pretty well conditioned to not pass out at the first sight of exercise, but it's not like I can maintain an all-out sprint for ten blocks and be perfectly  _ fine.  _

 

Not to mention I don't really know where I am. I'm fairly local to New York City, been here for almost six years, but I've never actually tried the whole ‘run blindly around random streets while being chased by the mob/mafia/druglords’ thing. So this is new. 

 

It's not like I  _ meant  _ to walk into what might've been the biggest undercover drug circle I'd ever seen. And I definitely didn't mean to piss off one of the most influential mafias in the city. 

 

The fact that I’d walked in there wearing my fucking badge probably hadn't helped any. 

 

While I was staring a good majority of NYC’s most wanted right in the face, I decided that was the perfect opportunity to exercise some of that self-preservation bullcrap everyone keeps indulging me to try. While I’m pretty good at being rash and headstrong, I’m not  _ suicidal. _ I’d turned my ass right around and  _ ran, _ but not before seeing some of them jump after me out of the corner of my eye.

 

I think I can hear three or four behind me now. Too many to fight, but not even a fraction of how many had been in the factory. There had been dozens, and I'm just smart enough to realize I can't take fifty guys who all outweigh me by at least twenty pounds. I need backup, or something. Commissioner Smith needs to know about this. As much as I hate to admit it, it's over my head. 

 

So here I am, running for my life down this dirt-poor, ghost part of town. There are a few rental apartments here, and I consider hopping from door to door in hopes of borrowing a phone, but I ultimately know better than to think the residents here would help a cop. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them are sitting in their windows, just watching. 

 

The thought keeps me running. 

 

The voices are suddenly closer, and without thinking I make a sharp turn down the first alleyway I almost pass, hoping to lose them by some miracle. That comes back to hit me in the face, almost literally, when I find myself staring at a high, chain link fence.  

 

I suck in a breath that sounds ragged to my ears, then launch myself at the obstacle, desperately grasping for a hold between the wires. For one heart-stopping moment, I think I'm going to slip, but then my feet find purchase and I'm able to climb to the top. Hollywood action-movie style, I leap off the fence, intent on gaining as much distance as possible before my attackers can round the corner. 

 

I'm too slow.

 

The crack of a gunshot rips through the air, and a half-second later a white-hot pain tears through my right thigh. I know what that is instantly, it's a bullet, but my brain doesn't switch to full-blown panic until I start to fall. I don't have time scream, I just feel the way my chest locks up as the ground rushes closer. It's slow-mo, it's dizzying little dots in my vision before I land on my shoulder, groaning at the cracking sound I hear. Yeah, that's definitely broken. 

 

I breathe through clenched teeth, resting my forehead against the dirty asphalt as my vision starts to waver. Even the adrenaline isn't enough to get me to my feet, and I lie helplessly on the ground for what feels like an eternity before the sound of the fence jangling forces me to open my eyes.

 

When did I close them?

 

I lift my head, propping myself up on my elbows to see that my attackers are having a much harder time scaling the fence than I did. They've halted right before the barrier and are simply staring at me through it.  _ This is my chance _ , I realize.  _ If I'm going to run, it has to be now.  _

 

Teeth grit as I push myself up, weight on my left foot, ignoring when my leg screams in agony. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. _ It'll never hurt as much as it will if they catch you, so buck up and move your ass! _

 

Every miniscule twitch sends hot needles shooting down my thigh, but I manage to keep myself moving, one-legged hopping towards the next turn in the alley. All my instincts are kicking in overdrive, screaming at me to  _ go faster, escape, escape. _ I’m primed to do just that, to make it to the next street, call a taxi, disappear into the crowd,  _ anything _ . But when I stagger around the corner I’m forced to stop, shoulders sagging in defeat at the impossibly solid brick wall before me.

 

As much faith as I have in my parkour skills, there's no way I’m getting over that. 

 

With nowhere else to go, the adrenaline drains out of my system surprisingly fast. I lean against the alley wall, temporarily hidden from the view of my pursuers. Not that it matters, they’ll be here before long. Exhausted, I slide to the cement, shifting my leg into a position that’s slightly less excruciating. The sudden numbness is probably a bad sign.

 

Out of morbid curiosity, I reach down to my leg, skimming over where my pants are already sticky and red. It’s a bad idea. When my fingers brush over the ragged, bloody skin around the bullet hole, I quickly jerk my hand away with a bitten-down scream. I've never been shot before, so there's no way I could've been prepared for  _ this, _ for the raw, agonizing pain that burns through my calf. It hurts. It hurts  _ so _ much, and I don't even know if the bullet came out the other side or if it's still lodged in there. 

 

I decide not to try to find out, instead reaching into my pocket to pull out my phone. With escape pretty much off the table, I figure I should at least use my last moments to tell someone what I saw. I hardly have enough control over my fingers to hit the right numbers, and I'm guessing that's a sign of severe blood loss. Trying not to look at the crimson pool under my leg or feel the way it's seeping into my jeans, I call the one person I know will pick up, clutching the phone a little too tightly when the dial tone cuts off on the second ring. 

 

“ _ Who the fuck is this?” _

 

Oh, right. New phone, new number. Jeez, he probably thinks I'm a stalker. That doesn't stop me from breathing in a sigh of relief at the familiar voice, though it’s tinny through the crappy speaker. “Ledger.” 

 

The other end is silent for a moment, the man probably trying to figure out why the hell I answered with  _ his _ name. Eventually he scoffs, and I can vividly picture him shaking his head. “That's  _ me, _ dumbass. But I can guess who you are.” his tone drops, more businesslike. “Why are you calling me, Hunter?” 

 

“I need a reason?” I wheeze out a laugh, wincing at the rattling in my lungs and the black dots in my vision. “Maybe I just wanted to hear your sultry voice.” 

 

Ledger grumbles something along the lines of,  _ If this is a booty call, I'll castrate you, _ so I get straight to the point. I try to steady my hand, it's shaking so badly I can barely keep the receiver by my ear. I speak again when I'm sure Ledger can hear.

 

“Factory on Brookside is a drug haven. I might’ve walked right in. Druggies weren't too happy about that. Chased me to a dead end in an alley. And before you ask, no, I don't know where I am.” I suck in a reluctant breath, each one a little more forced than the last. The line is completely silent, Ledger waiting for me to continue, so I do, swallowing hard. “I got shot. I don't know how bad. Can't feel my leg. Lots’a blood. I think…” I chuckle bitterly, remembering how it felt to be an ‘invincible’ rookie. “I think I'm in shock.” 

 

“ _ Jesus Christ, Hunter. You got yourself  _ shot? _ ” _ There's a panicked note in Ledger’s voice now. My first instinct is to somehow calm him down, but there's nothing I can say that isn't a blatant lie. I mean, even  _ I _ know this is bad.

“S’just a flesh wound.” I eventually slur, closing my eyes. Ledger speaks again and I jerk awake, not even realizing I’d been nodding off. 

 

“ _ Idiot _ .  _ Stay on the line. Look for street signs or something to tell me where you are. I’ll come pick you up _ -” 

 

“No.” I whisper, distantly hearing shouting that's far too close. “It's too late. They're here.” I watch as one of the ugly fucks pops his stupid bald head around the corner, calling to his buddies when he sees me sitting there like a rag doll. I sigh. “I gotta go Ledger. Tell Smith what I said.” 

 

“ _ Hunter-” _

 

With shaking fingers, I hang up, just in time for the men rounding the corner to see my phone clatter to the ground.

 

“He fucking called someone!” One of them screams, and I can’t fight off a smile, not even when a hand fists into the front of my shirt, pulling me forward just to slam me back against the wall. The black dots in my vision multiply when my skull cracks against brick, but I can't help the weak laugh that forces its way out of my chest. Ledger is probably already on the phone with Smith by now, and soon the gang’s operations will be shut down. 

 

As an officer, I did what I had to.

 

Hot breath hits my cheek, and I recoil, scrunching up my nose.  _ God, ever heard of  tic-tacs?  _ “Who the fuck did you call?” 

 

I grit my teeth and give the bastard a lazy smile. It all hurts. I can't even differentiate all the ways I feel like shit right now, and I've honestly had enough. But my pride won't allow me to quit without one final smartass comeback, so I tell him; “I ordered a pizza while I was waiting for you to get your fatass over the fence.” 

 

“Little bitch-” 

 

My consciousness doesn't stick around for much else. I see the guy pull his arm back, and I hear my own hoarse laugh ringing in my ears just before a fist collides with my face.

 

Then the lights go out.


	2. Black Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Told from the POV of Eden Hunter's partner, Tange. I had to write a fiction off the prompt of "Death By Landscape" and I got the Lovure. Though I never actually turned it in (oops) I did finish it. So, here you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really a chapter 2, but it's another shot along the same vein of the first story. I might just make this a collaboration of fics, I don't know. I currently don't have any more, but I wouldn't mind writing them if people like, REALLY want to read them. Anyway, let me know what you think and, as always, criticism is approved.

The crime scene is an absolute  _ disaster _ .

  


It looks like something straight out of a scene from  _ Chainsaw Massacre.  _ I didn't know a person could break into so many parts; there’s not even a body. The Louvre’s sleek, black floor is covered in gore, chunks of bloody meat, and pieces of bone that appear to have gone through a woodchipper. And if that isn't pleasant enough, There’s something that vaguely resembled a portion of intestines draped over the spiral staircase. The warm sunlight shining in through the crystal walls is deceiving to the grisly scene inside, lighting the glass pyramid with an orange glow, glistening off of slimy red flesh. It could almost be considered  _ artsy _ , if it weren't so macabre.

  


_ Abhorrently pretty _ , I find myself thinking, looking up towards the transparent ceiling. The top of the pointed roof has a person-sized hole broken in it, the glass around the opening tinted red with stringy strips of tissue caught on the protruding edges. The victim seemed to have fallen straight through, though I’m having a hard time believing that this mess scattered across the floor had once been a human being.

  


Apparently, so is Keller, because all it takes is one look inside the glass building before he's ducking back out like a skittish puppy, shaking his head and muttering a chorus of ‘nope, not today’ under his breath. 

  


“Wimp.” Hunter snorts next to me, watching Keller make his escape. I roll my eyes at their antics, deciding it's better to just not get into it and instead pull him towards where Collin and Sierra are poking around the gooey crap on the floor. They’re talking quietly (for once), Collin making disgusted faces and Sierra looking like it’s taking everything she has not to lose her lunch. 

  


_ At least don't have their job. _

  


“Any clues on who our vic is?” Hunter asks them, cracking a grin when both their heads swivel up at once, like little baby owls. There's a small bag of bone fragments sitting to Collin’s right, picked out from the rest of the gore. They probably won't help with ID, but maybe Yang could put something helpful together back at the forensics lab. 

  


“Well, they’re dead, that's for sure. But as far as ID goes, we’ve got nothing to identify them with.” Sierra reports, scrunching up her face behind a medical mask.

  


“But,” Collin chimes in, lifting up what looks like a chunk of gelatin with tweezers, “A lot of the stuff you see on the floor is actually body fat. So, you know…” he stretches out his arms, “Big dude.” 

  


“Or chick.” Sierra adds, mindlessly bagging what looks to be part of some gold jewelry. Maybe a watch. There's blood and gunk imbedded in the plating, and I rub my nose. The smell is starting to get to me.

  


“Alright. Keep digging,” I tell them, “There's gotta be something buried in all this.” Looking out at their crime scene, it’s pretty obvious that no one’s going home anytime soon. Finding a useful piece of evidence in this bloodbath is going to be like finding one specific needle in a pile of identical needles. We’ll have to bag most of it, then dump it on Christa and Yang. Find out if the COD was the fall or something else. If we don't find anything to ID this John (or Jane) Doe, we’ll have to wait for a DNA analysis to come back, but that could take a while. It’s time we don't have. 

  


I look around for Christa, hoping to ask if she can somehow find out when this guy went  _ ker-splat _ , when everything is cut silent by a cold, displeased voice carrying through the room; 

  


“It smells like  _ shit _ in here.” 

  


I glance over at the snarl that marks the arrival of Ledger, who’s standing in the entrance to the Louvre. I can’t help but grin at his presence here; it sure hadn't taken Hunter long to summon our favorite hitman, then. The mob leader looks even more disgusted than Keller had been, and I’m silently cracking up at the face he's pulling. Like he just watched someone take a shit on his lawn and walk away. Thing is, Ledger is an atrocious clean freak. He feels the need to wipe down every nook and cranny of any space he inhabits, sometimes even calling on Hunter (No, really. He actually calls him. Eden gets random calls from Ledger once or twice a week, always off of a burner phone) to help if there are spots his short stature won't allow him to reach. Even his kills are always carried out neatly; usually a single gunshot to the head, quick and to the point, rarely ever any blood splatter. I still have no idea how he does it, it's just a relief that he’s on our side. Y’know, for now. 

  


“Good morning, Captain Clean!” I call across the room, delighting in the withering glare I receive from the angry man. He doesn't fool me anymore; Ledger’s only dangerous if you get on his bad side, and I'd like to think that we’re on relatively good terms at the moment. I make fun of his quirks but I don't arrest him or his people, and in return he helps us solve cases while carrying around a tangible dark cloud. It's a give-receive sort of thing. 

  


“Detective Carter.” Ledger replies icily, making his way over to us while skillfully dodging the patches of filth on the floor. His eyes roam the room, perma-scowl momentarily disappearing to give Hunter a nod of acknowledgement (who waves like an idiot). He finds the hole in the ceiling, notices the fancy decor of human ligaments hanging from it, and the frown makes another debut.

  


“That's fucking disgusting.” 

  


Christa appears to my left, carefully holding a messed up hunk of  _ something.  _ “Not all murders are as tidy as yours, Ledger.” she hums, poking through whatever she's got in her hands. I see paper sticking out and realize it's a wallet. 

  


“That looks like our ID.” I remark, and she nods, though her eyebrows are pinched.

  


“It will be useful, but the name on this card is blotted out. I only have a picture.” She pulls out a grimy card, flashing us a photograph of a middle-aged Caucasian man with more chins than Mount Rushmore, “We could put his face on some flyers, maybe someone will recognize him.” 

  


Next to me, Hunter groans dramatically. I share his pain; I hate asking the public for help. People will do just about anything for five seconds of fame, and it seriously messes with our investigation when assholes make up stories. Unfortunately, they never seem to care. It's probably just a prank to them. 

  


I must've been making a face, because Ledger directs a swift glare at both of us, “Stop whining,” he snaps, taking a closer look at the card without actually touching it, “I know who he is.” 

  


“How do you-” Christa starts, then shakes her head, “Nevermind. I don't think I want to know.” 

  


“You don’t,” Ledger affirms, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “His name is Victor Kruz. He lives in Saint  _ Germain-des-Prés _ , with all the rich dogs.” His frown turns into more of a sneer, “Nice guy, if you mean nothing to him.” 

  


“Did you know him?” I ask, “Personally?” 

  


He nods, eyes shadowed. “And I'm not sad he's dead, either.” his voice drops low, “That man has made a lot of people disappear.” 

  


I'm tempted to ask more, but something in Ledger’s tone tells me it's best not to delve into it. There's obviously some bad blood between them, though with Ledger’s trade it's not overly surprising, but it can wait. We’ve got bigger fish to fry than whatever business Ledger got himself into in the past. 

  


“You said he lives in Saint Germain,” says Hunter, getting that look in his eye like he always does when he thinks he's got a good case, “Know the address?” 

  


Again, Ledger nods, “Yeah. Big ass mansion right on the river, not like you can miss it.” 

  


Christa turns to look at me, like she's expecting something, and Hunter’s giving me those excited puppy eyes, like,  _ can we go, can we go now please?  _ They probably just want to get away from all the blood and guts, though I'm definitely in agreement there.

  
“Alright then,” I tell them, pulling off my bloody gloves, “Let's go pay Mr. Kruz’s residence a visit.” 


End file.
